


Empty Nest

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [19]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Loneliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: 1652, Blois. Loneliness is less when you have someone to share it.<br/>DISCLAIMER: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Nest

_What is a home without children? Quiet._  
_~Henny Youngman_

 

In the late afternoon the house seemed too quiet. Olivier loved silence, but this sort of stillness resembled so little to peace that only managed to make him uneasy. He tried to gather his memories to write another bit of his life, but his eyes were been dragged, unmercifully, to the miniature portrait of his son. The donor of this gift came to Bragelonne, stayed a couple of weeks, and never came back again or write a letter. So far, so good; there was not a complaint of Athos’ part, but having an image of his son, only served to remind him Raoul’s absence.  
  
There is nothing that he could do about it. Raoul was now in Paris, the city was in turmoil. It seemed to the old musketeer that is another Day of Barricades, which did not stop his heart to be heavy, thinking of his son. It was better to become absorbed with the past than to try to divine the future. He raised his quill, and tried to redact that duel near the Carmes-Deschaux.  
  
A soft knock in the door distracted Athos from his writing exercise. He had spent long days and nights in that manuscript, just because his life had become too comfortable, too easy, if he could overlook his longing for Raoul. He sighted, and vouchsafed the person on the other side of the door. Grimaud entered the room, lanky and sober, a little more gray, but barely wrinkled. They exchanged a look, just like any other day. There was no trouble, the house was running smoothly.  
  
Grimaud’s hands made some easy and economical signals. The meaning was clear; he wanted permission to tread in his master’s personal bedchamber to change the bedding and to look for dirty clothing. Tomorrow would be laundry day.  
  
Athos nodded, and returned to his papers. His mind wandered again, and he smiled at the thought of his valet’s regularity. Grimaud had a day for laundry and ironing, a day for polishing the silverware, a day for darn hoses and patch shirts, and so on. He managed to merge his rituals into Athos’ routine, so he always could be able to carry on his little maniac chores, and be free to serve his master’s wishes. Sometimes, Athos thinks he would not give the image of a Count if Grimaud would be a lazy wage earner, instead of a lackey thoroughly dedicated to make him presentable.  
  
It did not take Grimaud long to change the sheets, and he came out with a bundle of fabric; he tried to be a noiseless as a mouse. His old valet – and he kept thinking of him as his valet, although he should be his butler or something like that – carried the clothes in a resigned manner, not that it was burdensome, but sadness seemed to seep from him. Athos knew he had not been forgiven for leaving Blaisois in Paris; Grimaud also longed for his boy. Blaisois missed terribly his gossipy wife and his child. How could he disregard that simple peasant’s pleas to spend some time with them?  
  
“Maybe, I should call Blaisois to take care of the linen...,” Athos murmured while extending his had to take the miniature.  
  
Grimaud fumbled the clothes with an expression of alarm; his eyes were worried, and it was evident that he tried hard to restrain his lips to quiver. That pantomime made his master confused for some moments. In time, Athos understood. Years of taking care of him had given his valet a sense of pride and ownership. Grooming his master and cleaning his room were the only tasks he was determined not to leave in other hand, not even Blaisois’.  
  
Experience had taught Athos that trying to apologize would only make things worse. Grimaud would rather receive any blame, than an apology. His fingers played with the portrait, while he found a way to repair his error. Without a smile, he extended his leg and pulled a stool beside his chair. With his free hand, he patted his thigh and looked at his valet.  
  
Grimaud arms dropped, the cloth was left to his feet, in a careless heap. His eyes did not leave of his master, as if waiting for a confirmation. For years that the gesture had not been used, this small ritual had been abandoned. Slowly, the servant went through the steps that separated him from his master, and sat on the footstool. He made a short pause, waiting for the command to be revoked and, failing to receive an opposite order, he allowed himself to lay his head on the thigh, a little thin, but as muscular as it once was. A sigh escaped his throat when his master's hand was placed over his head, and began to caress his straight, graying hair.  
  
The sun was setting, the shadows were beginning to invade the small cabinet, but Athos did not mind them. In his mind there was only room for the small picture, and the feeling of his fingers in that long hair. Somehow, revive the customs of his adolescence calmed down his anxiety a bit, though he was not sure if it was due to the silence or to the repetitive action.  
  
“Miss him?” Grimaud asked when silence dragged for too long.  
  
Excessively, Athos wanted to say, but that would admit that he could not control himself. His whole life had been training for stifle his emotions; admitting that he missed Raoul was almost like betraying his upbringing. Instead of answering, he let his eyes rest on the portrait; a smile crossed his face as he recalled the features of his son. Raoul would be fine. He may soon come to visit. This affliction was temporary, and Athos would soon cease to feel its effects. There was no need to admit his weaknesses.  
  
“Hush!” He commanded, and continued stroking that hair.  
  
Grimaud smiled and relaxed, like a cat enjoying a warm sunbeam. They were too old to play that game, but if that would make them feel better - if it prevented both from were seized by loneliness - he had no problem letting the time be spent on such activities. The laundry could wait, and dinner too.  
  
Night had already fallen, but there was no hurry...


End file.
